


Home is Where You Hang Your Hat

by Siobhan_Schuyler



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Gen, Hale Family Feels, Loft fic, Pack Dynamics, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:03:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siobhan_Schuyler/pseuds/Siobhan_Schuyler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He isn’t in the business of replacing the Hale house either; he just needs someplace to live and sleep and eat that isn’t the driver’s seat of a pony car. He selects each piece carefully, gingerly. And he’s almost done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home is Where You Hang Your Hat

It's almost finished.

Derek lets himself dip into his savings account, the one replete with several large inheritances and fat insurance payouts, and gets stuff for his new digs. Not much, just enough. After living for nearly two years in the burnt-out shell of his family home, he’s not feeling overly extravagant. He isn’t in the business of replacing the Hale house either; he just needs someplace to live and sleep and eat that isn’t the driver’s seat of a pony car. He selects each piece carefully, gingerly. And he’s almost done.

He pads out of his kitchen with his cup of coffee, thinking of heading to IKEA this afternoon, then stops, frowning at Stiles who is sprawled on his new couch with books, papers, and his laptop strewn on the couch cushions and Derek's equally new coffee table. He's been there for the better part of the day.

"Don't you have a _home_?" Derek grunts as he vindictively claims the last free third of his couch, sounding more petulant than annoyed.

Although annoyance has certainly been a theme since the pack started thinking of Derek's new loft as their own personal rec room. There are textbooks on the dining table, random pairs of shoes by the door, and this morning Derek found a toothbrush that isn't his next to the toothpaste. Last straw.

"I do in fact have a home," Stiles says around the licorice whip dangling from his mouth. The package is on the table, ripped open and half empty. Stiles’ eyes never leave his laptop screen and Derek is fairly certain he's playing a Facebook game, not doing homework. "But ever since my dad started making moon eyes – pardon the word choice – at Scott's mom, I've decided your lovely visage is a better option when I’m trying to study." He looks up at Derek's furrowed brow and grins. "Such as it is."

Derek sighs and grabs his TV remote. He starts flipping through the digital guide for a basketball game or a Law & Order rerun or something, but the pickings are slim. He's seriously considering watching _Dodgeball_ for the umpteenth time when the heavy door of his loft swings open, admitting Lydia and Allison.

"Ugh, I need a _shower_ ," Lydia is complaining, carefully tossing her hair over her shoulder like she's reluctant to touch any part of her own body. She is, indeed, covered in muck.

Next to her, Allison stands spotless and irritated. "I told you not to go after that thing. We should've waited for Scott."

"Whatever," Lydia dismisses, kicking off her boots. Allison shrugs off a heavy satchel and her collapsed bow. They both leave everything in the middle of the floor.

"Hey!" Derek complains, but it's futile, Allison is already headed for the fridge and Lydia for the bathroom, closing and locking the door before Derek has the chance to tell her not to use his good towels.

"Got anything that's not week-old take-out?" Allison asks from the depths of Derek's fridge. The old building's pipes creak as the water starts running in the bathroom.

"It’s not your house, get your own food!" Derek thunders, but Allison ignores him, sauntering to the couch with a large slice off meat lovers' on a piece of paper towel. She sits down next to Stiles and offers him a bite. Derek stares at them desperately.

Then Scott wanders out of the master bedroom, yawning and stretching. Derek does an actual double-take.

"What the-- Were you in there the whole time?"

Scott shrugs and pads over to the couch, climbing over the back of it wearing nothing but an old BHHS t-shirt and sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips. He plops down on the other side of Stiles and leans over him to steal his own bite of Allison's pizza before propping both feet on the coffee table.

Derek kinda wants pizza now. And Scott’s grotty adolescent feet off his goddamn coffee table.

Erica and Isaac are still a block away when Derek hears them, mostly because he knows to expect them. It takes them a few minutes to make their way to Derek’s door, which apparently is never locked, despite his clear recollection of having used keys and bolts in the recent past. He’ll have to look into that.

The stragglers saunter in, arms loaded with groceries and a very fragrant bag of Chinese food. From Derek’s favorite place, by the smell of it. His resolve is wavering. He stands, mug still in hand.

“We got you the spicy beef you like,” Isaac tells him, all eager smile and sheepish energy, betraying the armor he’s been trying to sport since his dad got killed.

“Thanks?” Derek says, grateful but bewildered. Erica is curling up in the spot he just vacated, and Isaac pauses next to him to nose at his neck, scenting him hesitantly, questioning but trusting. Derek lets him, because, well, because what else is he gonna do? He wanted betas. He got betas. And then some.

Isaac goes to put away the groceries and Derek ends up perched on a kitchen stool watching the kids on his couch argue over what to watch on Netflix. Behind him, Isaac is banging around the cupboards. Someone’s phone goes off, almost immediately followed by someone else’s text tone. Erica lets out a loud peal of laughter and Lydia comes out of the bathroom wearing one of Derek’s clean workout t-shirts and her wet hair wrapped in one of his good towels. Scott drops a large glob of cheese on Derek’s new couch, staining it red with tomato sauce.

Something in Derek’s chest loosens, unexpectedly. Something Derek had no idea was clenched tight into a fist, aching, waiting. The sounds around him feel oddly like the ones from before the fire, in the house that used to be more than soot and ruin. His breath catches shakily.

“Hey, big guy!” Stiles calls from the couch, having wrestled the remote from Erica’s hands. “We’re thinking of marathoning Battlestar Galactica. You in?”

Derek shocks himself by smiling. A small smile. Nothing big. A first step. Stiles raises an eyebrow, maybe in surprise, or maybe just because he _is_ waiting for Derek’s okay. This is happening more and more, these small deferences to him, like maybe, just maybe, they do think of him as their alpha. As some kind of a leader, the kind he was never supposed to be.

“Sure,” he ends up saying, taking his cold cup of coffee back to the couch.

They make room for him between Isaac, who wordlessly snuggles closer, and Stiles, who tries not to but will inevitably give up halfway through the first episode and plaster himself against Derek's shoulder. Derek closes his eyes and lets the chatter and bustle around him turn into a comfortable white noise, feeling that ache in his chest dissipate, ebb out. 

IKEA can wait. He might have everything he needs here after all.


End file.
